Most Popular

Recent Blog Posts

Recent Articles

Recent Articles by Caleb Hannan

National Features >

  • SF Weekly

    Pinot Bizarre

    You won't believe the California wine industry's latest new-age craze.

    By Joe Eskenazi

  • Westword

    The Snowboard Bandits

    They lived for excitement, but the FBI got the final thrill.

    By Joel Warner

  • Seattle Weekly

    "Trash Fish"

    Chuck Bundrant build an unlikely seafood empire--with a little help from Alaska Senator Ted Stevens.

    By Laura Onstot

  • Village Voice

    The Transformation of Mike Bloomberg

    How a benevolent billionaire mayor ended up owning us all.

    By Wayne Barrett

Jesus RX

The untold tale behind Mercy Ministries' one-size-fits-all prescription for recovery

By Caleb Hannan

Published on October 01, 2008 at 9:00am

Jennifer Wynne didn't know what to make of the woman standing in front of her. For two weeks, she'd heard the other girls in the house talk about how the woman was intimidating, how she didn't put up with any bullshit, how she'd cut you down just as soon as look at you.

It was 1994 in Monroe, La., and Wynne had just turned 18. In her previous life she'd been a minor member of the Latin Kings, the gang that ruled her hometown of Queens, N.Y. The Kings gave her respite from the cramped apartment she shared with her sister, mom and mom's boyfriend, one in a line of men that took an uncomfortable interest in her.

By age 12 she was drinking. Two years later she was going to school armed with a 9 mm pistol. When her best friend tried to leave the gang, it was Wynne who delivered the punishment: a knife to the gut.

She knew where her life was headed. The signs were all around her in friends who ended up dead, in jail or trampled by dope. It was a cliché, the ending to the story that everyone saw coming, and she was living it. Until she decided not to.

At age 17, Wynne escaped to a treatment facility in upstate New York, but only lasted a month. The women there were twice her age and the counselors were unprepared to see past the manipulative charms at her disposal. Half Puerto Rican and half French, with dimpled cheeks plumped by baby fat and Betty Boop eyelashes, Wynne was the worst kind of confidence artist: the one who understands how good she really is.

Life at the center was easy but it wasn't progress, and Wynne actually wanted to get better. One day she heard about a woman in Louisiana who ran a home called Mercy Ministries. It only took in girls her age and didn't charge a cent. With $17 and a trash bag filled with hand-me-down cotton dresses, Wynne headed south.

For three days she rode a Greyhound, sleeping in bus depots and shrugging off seat mates whose heads would loll sleepily onto her shoulder.

She arrived in Monroe in the middle of the night to a room full of strange girls who thought she talked funny. The house was next to a paper mill and stunk of processed pulp. Wynne wondered if she'd made the right choice. Then she met Nancy.

Down a narrow hall walked a smiling, bleached blonde holding a sheltie. Nancy put her free arm around Wynne's shoulders. "I'm glad you're here," she said.

Growing up, Wynne's mom had barely acknowledged her presence, let alone hugged her. Now this woman she'd been told to fear was making her feel truly welcome. That she belonged.

"I felt like God had put her in my life to be that mother to me," says Wynne. "I thought she was my savior."

Nancy Alcorn grew up in Manchester, Tenn. She dreamed of playing college basketball until a serious knee injury derailed those hopes.

After graduating from Middle Tennessee State University, Alcorn worked for eight years as the athletic director at Tullahoma women's prison. She grew close to the inmates she counseled, but became disillusioned with the state's attempts at rehabilitation.

The problem, as Nancy saw it, was that Tennessee was focusing on changing behavior rather than getting to the root causes: the painful circumstances that sent girls running from dysfunctional homes. Their lack of self-worth and security was what brought them to the state's care. Alcorn thought she could do better.

In 1983, a friend convinced her to come to Louisiana. Struck by the number of kids in need and the lack of resources to help them, Alcorn bought a small home and began what she hoped would be an alternative to secular treatment. Her goal was simple: to help young women in trouble gain control over their lives using Christian-based counseling. And she'd do it without charging a dime or taking donations with strings attached. Alcorn looked to the Bible—James 2:13—for her program's name: "For judgment will be merciless to one who shows no mercy; mercy triumphs over judgment." With that, Mercy Ministries was born.

Twenty-five years later, Alcorn's vision spans three continents. Mercy's headquarters on Old Hickory Road in Brentwood opened in 1996, followed by two homes in Australia, and one apiece for St. Louis, Great Britian, and New Zealand. They treat everything from eating disorders to girls suffering from sexual abuse, and they've grown entirely through private donations and fortuitous connections with music and sports celebrities.

Christian quartet Point of Grace has sold over 5 million records. But when Alcorn met them in the early '90s, they hadn't released an album. Singer Shelley Breen remembers being impressed by Alcorn's devotion to young girls. They were the same girls who came to Breen after concerts asking for help and advice.

"They'd say, 'My boyfriend's pressuring me to have sex' or 'I did drugs and I'm not sure if I should do it again,' " she says. "We were just feeling really inadequate at the time. We're not counselors; we just sing."

1   2   3   4   5   Next Page »

Nashville Scene Insiders

  • Local food, music and news blasts
  • Free Stuff
Backpage.com